nine2five 2,8 Fallen Angel
by Marc Vun Kannon
Summary: Chuck, Sarah, and Casey are locked down in Castle until a cure for the fear toxin can be found, but Frost doesn't feel like waiting for them to come out.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** The beginning of the Fallen Angel arc.

* * *

"_I said I had to try, Agent."_

"_Don't cause trouble unless they cause trouble first." _

"_He's my one weakness." _

"_He's just a face."_

* * *

"Well," said General Beckman from the big screen. "Here's something I never expected to see again."

Chuck, Sarah, and Casey all shared an unsmiling glance as they stood behind the table in Castle for the briefing.

The General noted their surroundings. "Although I must say Castle has seen better days, and you all look rather the worse for the wear."

"Begging the General's pardon," said Casey, "But so does the General."

"Your team's late nights tend to become my early mornings, Colonel," said Beckman. "And the more time zones between us the worse it gets. One of the perqs of command." Not that Casey needed to be told that. "Your briefs were quite the wake-up call, I expect the full reports to be both prompt and invigorating." She took a sip of her black coffee.

"Yes, ma'am."

Beckman shifted her focus. "Chuck, good to have you back. I look forward to your report especially." A set of photos from the Buy More security cameras lined the bottom of the screen. "However inadvertently it may have come about, you managed to get some visuals on Alexei Volkoff, a remarkable accomplishment. We already have reports from Interpol of sightings in Istanbul."

"Will the General be sending us there to pursue those sightings?" asked Sarah eagerly.

A little too eagerly, if you asked the General. "No, Agent Bartowski. We know their faces but they also know yours. Another team will take point on that search. We have a different job for you."

"We'll be there ASAP, General," said Casey.

"No need, Colonel," said Beckman. "You are in Castle, and Castle is where you will remain, for the time being. We're pulling the current Castle team, until Hannah is determined to be fit for duty, and possibly after that."

Sarah couldn't have been surprised, but she made an unhappy sound. Chuck looked over at his wife, knowing what she was unhappy about. "I'm sure she'll be okay, Sarah."

"I hope so too, Chuck," said the General. "She's a strong person, but an encounter with Volkoff would traumatize even the strongest agent. Given the Intersect connections in the case, we are bringing her in to be evaluated by Dr. Dreyfus."

None of them dared ask 'how long', but they must all have been thinking it, very very loud. Beckman continued, "This assignment will only be for a few days, we can't leave such a sensitive position unguarded until we can get a replacement team together. Your friend will receive a commendation, Sarah, and probably a transfer to a far more suitable posting, so a new team will be necessary in any event."

Sarah smiled. "I'm glad for her."

"You should be, she deserves it." Beckman's tone softened. "You know, Sarah, she's the second extremely qualified asset you've discovered in an unlikely place. Maybe when you retire from field duty you should consider a position in recruiting." The General smiled.

The field agent didn't. "I'll consider it, General."

* * *

_I'm sure you will. _General Beckman kept a straight face, easy to do with the anxious face on her other monitor, watching and evaluating. "Colonel Casey, you will determine the structural integrity of the Castle installation. Chuck can assist you with that."

Ellie gave her a silent thumbs up.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Uh, General, don't you think I need to get back to the lab?" asked Chuck. "Whatever my mother did to me, we need to study it, try to reverse it, don't we? There may be clues…" He waved his hand in the general vicinity of his head.

Beckman saw Ellie pull Manoosh briefly on screen, pointing to him before shoving him off again. "I agree, Mr. Bartowski," said the General, "But that's technical work, and this is a hopefully unique opportunity to study the skills and how they integrate with your mind. I will be sending Manoosh and some of the people from the Intersect team to make that evaluation. Ellie is currently backlogged with other tasks and could no doubt use a break from Intersect work for a while." Beckman watched their faces with some dismay. Of course they all knew something was up, but normally they wouldn't be so transparent about it. "I expect those reports to be here when I get back to my desk, otherwise you are dismissed." She hit the switch with her usual speed, before Chuck could think of more questions to ask her. "Your thoughts, Doctor?"

"Clearly off their game, especially Sarah. Keep them busy with routine tasks, that's all I can say for now, General. Let other teams handle any real crises that may come up."

Beckman made a face. "Unfortunately, the only teams in the area are both on their way out of it. Believe me, it's for the best."

"How can it be for the best?" said Ellie, who'd read far too many of her brother's reports. Actually Sarah's reports. Her brother tended to underplay his role and Casey went on about gunplay. "There are more spies in LA than there are actors!"

For the second time that morning General Beckman smiled. "Probably true, Ellie, but the withdrawal is unavoidable. Director Bentley's team was trying to replace your brother's as the go-to team in the CIA, and wound up in a situation only Chuck could save them from."

Her fingers trembled, just a little, but Ellie's face glowed with pride. "So now they're slinking back home with their tails between their legs?"

Privately, Diane Beckman rather treasured the idea, but publicly…"Of course not, Doctor. They're escorting the remains of a disarmed weapon of high potency. One of Volkoff's enemies didn't mind getting his hands dirty in someone else's town."

_Oh._ "Ahem, well, what about the Castle team?"

"Currently leaderless, and in this situation likely to do more harm than good. If there's a silver lining in the cloud hanging over Castle, it's that the events of last night will serve as an excuse to pull them out of the rotation early."

"All of them?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Two of them require…careful handling, while the third is the sole survivor of a group of four."

Ellie winced sympathetically. "Oh, that's rough."

Beckman nodded. "Especially since two of them were murdered by the third. To make it worse, she's psy-ops. One can never quite tell which way those balls will bounce, especially the trainees." She yawned. "You've gotten started on your project?"

Ellie yawned too. "Yes, General. I gave Mr. Clark the list of the items and the personnel I'll need. He's cutting the orders now."

"Good. The sooner an antitoxin is found, the sooner our team can come back. Until then, I'll have to put someone on watch behind the scenes. I suggest we both get some rest now, life will get hectic again soon enough." She reached for the button, but paused, and remembered to say, "Good night, Ellie."

Ellie smiled. "Good night, Diane."

* * *

Somewhere over the Pacific…

"Istanbul?" asked Volkoff. "Why there? You know I've never cared for Turkish cuisine."

Frost slid into the seat opposite him. "True," she said, "But they don't know that, and it will give the CIA profilers something to chew over, your 'imperial ambitions' or whatever."

"But I _have_ imperial ambitions."

"Exactly," said Frost. "Which is why I've instructed your doppelganger to make a large and unexpected donation to a religious institution or a children's hospital, whatever suits his fancy."

Alexei hummed, like growling with his mouth closed. "Simple and unexpected," he declared with some measure of approval in his tone. "Much like Agent Charles' swift escape from what should have been an inescapable doom." He glowered at her. "I can think of only one explanation for that."

Frost watched him patiently. "And that would be?"

"I underestimated him," said Volkoff bitterly. "My anger blinded me, but I see it all now, the mastery of deception! No agent would ever have fallen after a single hit like that. Obviously we were meant to think exactly what we _did_ think, that he was an underling and she was the super-agent, leading us to foil her schemes while leaving his own untouched." Volkoff shook his head in amazed wonder. "Impressive. Most impressive."

"There's only one thing to be done," said Frost, clearly impressed.

"I agree." Volkoff snapped his fingers, and an underling brought him a package, wrapped in bright paper with a big bow on it. Frost's nails needed no enhancements to make short work of that. "When we lost contact with your last computer, I took the liberty of ordering up a replacement. When you check your email you'll find the dossiers on my three top assassins in America. Use them. Verify Agent Charles' death personally. Return to America at the next refueling point. Even Mr. Charles won't be expecting _that_."

She took a deep breath, considering her orders, looking a little uncertain but obedient. "Very good. I trust you will remain safely in your office while I'm about it."

She was always so fanatical about his safety. "I'm afraid not, Frost. Mrs. Agent Charles let it slip that Dragan Pichushkin was in LA at the same time I was, and we both know there could be only one reason for that. Since nothing crassly murderous made the news I'm assuming Agent Charles did for him what he's done for so many of my own men. Dragan's men need a leader, while I am in need of some new blood."

Her face was pale, but she kept her tone light. She never liked it when he did his own field work. "They aren't just going to let you waltz in and take over, Alexei."

He chuckled. "Of course not. When I fail to get off this plane in Moscow, the more ambitious of them will come crawling out of the woodwork, thinking their master succeeded. I cut off those heads and the rest of them will fall in line."

Frost didn't blink at the thought of all the deaths soon to come. "Can I be allowed to know where you will be?"

"Of course, my dear. I was thinking how lovely Istanbul is, this time of year, and how much our dear friend Mr. Tuttle loves Turkish cuisine."

* * *

"Manoosh!" yelled Chuck at the slight figure descending the stairs. "Welcome to our little Castle away from home."

"Hey, Chuck," said Manoosh around a blob of frozen yogurt. He indicated the contents of his cup. "You know, this is really terrible." Didn't stop him from scooping up another blob.

"Yeah, well, it's not like they want to have too many customers up there." Chuck reached for his cup. "Let me help you with that."

Manoosh pulled away. "Get your own! I haven't had free government-supplied awful frozen yogurt in a dog's age."

Chuck sagged. "Neither have I. We're not supposed to go upstairs, so no one will see us."

"My heart bleeds," said Manoosh absently, as he licked his spoon. "Really, a whole day underground so far, how can you stand the torment?" He launched his empty cup at a trash can with an experienced hand. "So I'm guessing you can't help us bring in all the boxes and bundles, either?"

Chuck looked at the expanse of grating and catwalk. The elevator went into the Buy More, which hadn't suffered much from the 'earthquake' after all, and had quickly reopened. "Oh, well, gee, I'd love to help you there, Manoosh, but you know–"

"You really shouldn't go upstairs, Chuck, someone might see you. Yeah, I get it, but all I have to say is, I've seen The Chair, and you haven't."

"'The Chair'? Is there a TM after that, or should I be making air quotes?"

"Laugh it up, fuzzball," said the shorter man to the tall one. The door above opened with a hiss, and they both turned to see who came in. "Sam here gets first crack at you, mainly to verify that the usual parameters still apply, but after that…" Manoosh rubbed his hands together with a pretty feeble 'mwa-ha-ha'.

"I don't know, it sounds like you could use a hand–"

"No, no," said Manoosh, pushing him and Sam down the hall. "You just run along with Sam, do your thing. You'll be mine soon enough."

* * *

Testing, Day one...

Chuck pulled, or tried to. "Wow, these straps are really tight. Snug, I mean. Snug." He pulled some more.

"They have to be, Chuck, it's not like you're going to be watching kittens play with yarn, here," said Manoosh, coming up with a piece of headgear. He started immobilizing Chuck's head in The Chair ™. "We're testing to see what happened to skills that in some cases are deadly. If they were really taken away that's one thing, but if they were merely suppressed somehow, I don't want to un-suppress them with me in the room, if you know what I mean. I don't have any fakeadeathanol literally at my fingertips."

"That was one time," said Chuck tiredly. You'd think he strangled people on a daily basis, the way they went on about it. "And Ellie pulled that code."

"Code never dies, Chuck, you know that." Manoosh tightened a chin strap. "Look at you now. The original program was all about implanting memories to bypass learning, and that code is still there. The Intersect only uses some of it but the skills need it. My glasses are much more lightweight, but I only had a fragment to work with. Anyway, the point is…what is the point?"

Chuck rolled his eyes, the only part of him that could still move. "The point is that it may not have been just Ellie's code that wouldn't let me stop, I get it."

Manoosh tightened the strap some more. "Right, that's the point. Not to mention that we don't want you hurting yourself, either, if we should somehow make you flash when you aren't ready for it."

"'ou 'ink 'ou 'an?"

"Maybe. Sam's been working on ways to force the subject, that's you, to flash on the Intersect data. We'll be combining his knowledge and mine to try to make you flash on the skills instead." Manoosh shrugged. "Mostly we're just taking advantage of what happened to do some baselining. Plus I get to come back to LA for a while, maybe get some sun."

Chuck gave him a thumbs-up.

Manoosh gave him a little proprietary pat on the shoulder. "Time for some heavy lifting. Language skills first."

"I 'an't 'alk."

"Doesn't matter." The chair tipped and suddenly Chuck was on his back, staring at an overhead screen. Manoosh leaned over him, moving the scanner into position. "Mwa-ha-ha," he said, rubbing his hands, before taking himself out of Chuck's sight.

Chuck pulled at the straps again.

* * *

Day four…

Manoosh sat on the beach, not looking very impressive in his shorts and whatnot but that wasn't why he was there. He had to make a phone call and he wanted to be sure no one was around while he made it.

"Hey Manoosh," said Ellie tiredly. "What's up?"

"Please tell me you've got a cure. This place is like a car crash waiting to happen, and I'm in the front seat."

Her voice perked up, hard and serious. "What's going on?"

"What isn't going on! I went to get a cup of coffee yesterday, and there was Casey, standing in the kitchen watching the water run, mumbling about waterboarding bearded trolls while his fingers twitched. Sarah's been sharpening her knives so much she had to get a new set, 'cause the old ones were off balance. I suggested she take a break, maybe watch a movie, and she said 'Get back to work, little man, the clock is ticking. Can't you hear it? Tick-tick-tick.'"

"Sarah insulted you?"

"Please, I've been insulted by plenty of blonde goddesses, but this was spooky. She walked away, and twenty minutes later I see her in the common room, crying over a rom-com."

"And Chuck?"

"Hard to say, since we really are putting him through a wringer. Might even be keeping him steady. We're running out of things to try that don't involve physical violence, though."

"Then you'll be happy to hear that Beckman's sending a new man out to join your team, someone who can handle the physical side." Ellie didn't sound happy about anything. "A psy-ops guy, but they think he's weird."

"_Psy-ops_ think he's weird? Great. When's he getting in?"

"He should be there by now. You haven't seen him?"

"No. Crap, I'm at the beach!" He stood and grabbed his towel, charging awkwardly through the sand back to his car. "I'll call you back."

* * *

Tap-tap-tap.

Chuck didn't look up. All this testing was cutting into his work as the head and only analyst on station, so he took advantage of any gap to do his real job. When the arms reached around him, he jumped, but too late.

"Your reflexes are pitiful," said Sarah, laying her head against his back as she tightened her grip. "The seasons move faster."

"I knew it was you," said her husband the non-agent, turning in the circle of her arms. "Honestly, I don't know how you can even walk in those heels, let alone fight."

She kept her head where it was, only against his chest now. "No testing today?" she asked, swaying slightly on her feet.

"Beach break for Manoosh," said Chuck, swaying with her. "He says it's for the sun but I think he calls Ellie to keep her up to date." Together they danced, without moving their feet. "Maybe we should put you on the team, though. This is nice."

She had no words to say, her entire being soaking up the feel of him after too long apart. Hours, at least.

Suddenly he dipped her, his body twisting with a violent motion and a sound of pain. By the time she opened her eyes he was on her other side and bringing her up fast. Behind him a man clad in black moved swiftly and silently.

Chuck yelled "Sarah!" and she knew another was behind her. "Ninjas, Chuck! Run, I've got this." She pushed him away, avoiding the third ninja she somehow knew was on the floor.

Chuck tried to run, but suddenly three more ninjas descended from the ceiling to surround him. No escape, and with Sarah busy, no help. He raised his hands, fighting as best he could, but they handled him easily, dodging his clumsy strikes and kicks. One to another the pushed him, and finally the third ended his shameful performance with a spinning kick to his legs that brought him down on the floor.

"Stop! Oh," came a command from above.

The ninjas stopped, Sarah stopped, seeing her husband on the floor. "Chuck!"

Agent Charles was just getting started. Flipping gymnastically to his feet, he attacked the first ninja with precise strikes, dropping him to the floor before his partners could move in. Two on one, they fared better, and when the third recovered it was no contest.

"Mr. Charles, I am impressed."

Chuck and Sarah stopped struggling against their captors, who immediately stood back and assumed some kind of at rest position. Their master had arrived.

The newcomer stopped by the first ninja and spoke with him in Japanese, the sound of it tugging annoyingly at Chuck's awareness. "You went up against three ninjas, without the Intersect. You must have the stones of a bull! If you hadn't been pulling your punches you might have even won."

Chuck dismissed that ridiculously hyperbolic comment. "And who might you be?"

"Agent Rye, Jim. Psy-ops out of Langley."

Sarah looked at the living statues. "This is psy-ops?"

"My fellow agents attack the mind to control the body, Agent Charles, but I use a different approach." Agent Rye walked around his subject, taking his measure. "I attack the body to control the mind. It's physical, but psychological. Painful." He smiled. "Brutal."

Sarah didn't like the sound of that. "Sounds like fun."

Jim ignored her. "Chuck, I promise you, that when we are done, you will be a spy again."

"He wasn't a spy before," said Sarah.

Agent Rye frowned at her. "Are you sure about that?"

* * *

The woman stood on the balcony of the winery, gazing out on the romantic vista. Not as romantic as the Loire Valley in France, but then, what was? Wineries everywhere had to present at least a façade of class, and with that came a façade of romance, even in the middle of California wine country.

Three men came to the doorway, but only one, Hercule, came forward with a silver case. "It's done."

She opened the case, to see a gun-shaped slot in the foam, currently holding no gun-shaped object.

Hercule continued his report. "We left the body, as directed, but we didn't find his weapon."

_It isn't a weapon._ She closed the case. "That's fine," said Frost. Chuck hadn't left LA, she was sure of that, but she wasn't about to go looking for him. "Someone will come for it."

* * *

**A/N2 **I think this is the third, or maybe the fourth, episode of nine2five that has bits of the leftovers in it. Season 4 really was a piecemeal season. Comments welcome, as always.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **I really should start writing down those brilliant ideas I have for author notes, because I never remember them when I'm actually posting these things. One thing that occurred to me as I was writing this, is how Rye is very much a more comic version of Shaw, the kind of character people wanted Shaw to be. A bit of a buffoon, marginally competent, getting Chuck in trouble, taken seriously by Beckman but no one else. (Did anyone else see him that way?) I kept the buffoon part.

The big complaint with season 4 is that neither Frost nor Volkoff are very coherent in their actions (I see S4 as the wedding cake from the Wedding Planner episode, it looks good until you actually try to carve it). The show got 11 unplanned episodes, and they had to write scripts in a hurry, and some of what they wrote contradicted stuff they'd already written, or at least made it hard to see how it all worked together. I'm trying to fix that.

Things are going to start getting a bit more complicated from here, what with lots of very smart, and some not-so-smart, people making all sorts of plans that really don't always mesh very well. There's not a lot of fluff here, I know, but I'll be trying to put more in where I can.

* * *

"_Here's something I never expected to see again."_

"_I underestimated him." _

"Psy_-ops think he's weird?" _

"_Someone will come for it."_

* * *

Two weeks ago…

Vivian MacArthur was more careful than usual putting on her locket. That man she'd shot (she winced, remembering the explosion of gore as he flew backward), that man said she had a key from her father, a token of affection from when she was a child. The only token she'd ever gotten from her father was this locket.

So small, so fragile. Something she could so easily have lost. She hadn't, of course, she'd treasured this one small thing, such a rare expression of her father's love. So rare. For a second she felt a chill go through her, at the very thought that she might in all innocence have lost this token. A horse ride, a hike. School, anything. Maybe she should put it away.

She shuddered, throwing off the fear. None of those things had happened. None of them would, especially now, now that she knew the truth. Her life, her father. _This house._ She looked around her. The familiar walls were suddenly unfamiliar, oppressive. Were they a cage, a shelter, or a father's loving hand?

No, not that. A shelter maybe, but definitely not a home.

According to Chuck (she smiled, remembering his smile), this house was a refuge, a place to keep her safe, stored away until her father needed her. She liked Chuck's way of keeping her safe better. He'd made a plan, orchestrated her safety, but he'd altered that plan, given her a part to play in her own rescue. Standing alone against Boris. Taking action, defining herself.

She liked the feeling. She liked Chuck.

* * *

Today…

Manoosh raced for the Castle entrance, but not without stopping to snag some more frozen yogurt. It was awful, but it was free, so that made it taste better. "Here I am," he said, running down the stairs. "What'd I miss?"

"Yogurt, my favorite," said Rye, plucking the cup from Manoosh's hand. Manoosh looked up and then up some more, as Rye scooped up a glob of the stuff for a taste. "Wow, this is really bad. I mean, government extra-special bad. But it's free, so I like it."

A man after his own heart, and yogurt. "Get your own!" said Manoosh, leaping to get his cup back.

Rye raised his arms. "I just did, you must have missed it."

"Miss this!" Manoosh punched him in the pills, not quite eye level but close.

"Oo!" yelled Rye, bending double.

Manoosh plucked the cup from his hands on the way down. He walked away, spooning up more of his prize. "Afternoon, Chuck, Sarah. See you guys in the lab?"

"Uh…no," said Chuck, sharing a look with Sarah. "I, uh, I think we'll be using the dojo now."

"I'll set up the scanner." Manoosh looked back at Rye, trying to straighten up. "Go easy on him, will you, Chuck?"

* * *

Chuck left off his stretching routine as Agent Rye came into the room. "You okay there, Jim?"

"Fine, fine," said Rye, hobbling along in a more sprightly fashion. "Why do you ask?"

Chuck went back to his flexing rather than answer that question. "I'm sorry about Manoosh, but you did, um, hit him where it hurts. With the yogurt, I mean. The guy's a little obsessive."

"Exactly! My plan worked perfectly," said Rye, forcing himself upright. "I need to know the kind of men I'm working with. Are you ready to work, Agent Charles?"

Chuck looked over his shoulder, before he realized what Rye had said. "You really should knock it off with the 'Agent Charles' talk, there, Agent Rye. Sarah's the agent, not me."

"You can't let your wife's jealousy hold you back, Chuck. You're the Intersect, not her."

Chuck heard tapping in the distance, rapidly approaching. "Are you trying to get me, you, or us killed?"

"Just some pride therapy, Chuck," said Rye as Sarah walked into the room, looking for a place where she could observe without interfering. "Obviously you're more spiritually advanced than that. I thought I recognized that quality. Don't usually find it in others, though. Probably why the Intersect works for you, and nobody else."

"Nope," said Chuck, shaking his head. "Gotta say, spiritual development, not a factor."

"I love your modesty, so refreshing."

"You're right," said Chuck. "This _is_ brutal." Rye slapped him across the face. "Ow!"

Sarah looked up.

"What the hell was that for?"

"Pain Therapy," said Rye. "Your spirit is well advanced, and the little guy is looking at your mind. Your body has triggers, and I'm going to keep trying those triggers until one of them works." He slapped Chuck again, harder.

"Ow!"

"Stop hitting him," said Sarah.

"I'm not hitting him, Agent Charles," said Rye. "Science is hitting him."

"Oh yeah? Let's see how science likes being hit." She came at him, punching and striking, putting Rye on the defensive, but his blocks matched her every strike. He really did seem to know what he was doing, so she backed off.

"Kempo karate," said Rye enthusiastically, and he sniffed the air. "With a delightful hint of grapefruit. You study?"

"Not since spy candidate school," said Sarah, confused. _Not since…_

Rye turned back to his subject. "That's what I'm talking about, Chuck. We need to find the right stimulus, be it pain, fear, or whatever it was in her case, but when we do, your flashes will return, just like her memory of kempo."

"It's okay, Sarah," said Chuck reassuringly. "I got this." She stood by the door, moving her hands in slow patterns. He touched her on the shoulder, catching her hand when her reflexes took advantage of her distraction. "Why don't you go see if Casey needs anything?" He let go.

"Good idea, sweetie." She nodded and left, still moving her hands, as if trying to remember consciously what she'd done automatically.

Chuck turned back to the circle. Rye lashed out to slap him again.

Chuck blocked the slap, and with four strikes and a leg sweep not part of any kata, left Rye on the ground.

"Did you flash?" asked Rye, checking for blood.

Chuck stared at his hands. "No."

Rye sagged back against the floor. "Are you _sure_ you're not an agent?"

* * *

Across town, in a business office that legitimately belonged to neither of the women in it…

"Report, Agent Miller."

Carina flexed her hand. "That's one con woman who won't be swindling any more happy couples out of their wedding funds."

"So you're done?" He sounded impatient.

One punch, dammit. "Well…_she's_ done. I was just getting started." One dart to keep her out. One anonymous call to 911, with evidence of her schemes, her aliases, her victims, left out in plain sight. One nice long prison sentence for Ms. Peralta here, if she was lucky. Otherwise, she'd meet Carina again.

"So we can get back to the evil cabals now?"

Carina scooped up Hannah's down payment, generous quantities of small bills already packed for the quick getaway that dear Daphne wouldn't be making. "You found another one? I've only been in LA three days!"

"Corruption, wealth, sex, sun, and a communications hub like no other. Need I say more?"

Sun. Sex. _Sigh._"No, Orion, you don't need to say anything more. Lead on, Macduff."

"That's 'lay on', not lead on. No one gets that right."

* * *

Sarah stood in the main room at Castle, pretending to work, listening to the sound of flesh meeting flesh, flesh meeting floor. Or walls. Her poor husband, he was getting beaten to a pulp. What was he trying to prove, anyway? If he was doing this for her, she'd have to pound some sense into him.

At last the sounds stopped, and she steeled herself as he shuffled into the room. No, that was Rye, shuffling for the stairs. Did he think she wouldn't hear him? She had bigger worries than him, though. There he was now, walking out of the room, as if nothing was wrong. "Chuck?" She reached up, cradling his head as she checked for bruises. He looked surprisingly good.

"Ow," he said, wincing.

"What?"

"My earlobes hurt. He pinched them."

"The brute. But I think I know how to fix this."

Castle was supposed to be a working base, not a habitation. Sam, Manoosh, and now Agent Rye had hotels to go to, but Team B was supposed to stay out of sight. With no undemolished cells, Casey slept in the armory, and he seemed happy enough. That solution wouldn't work for Chuck and Sarah, since a) Casey was already there, and b) army cots didn't come in double sizes. The CIA being what it was, fraternization rules and all, the visitor's quarters were set up with a single twin bed, and not a lot else. But the Agency's top couple were nothing if not resourceful.

Chuck lay stretched face down, over a stack of mats roughly the size of a queen-sized bed. Sarah used all her skills to ease the considerable pain he must have been in (below the neck; his earlobes were on their own), although he refused to show it. "Please tell me you aren't doing this for us."

Chuck raised his hands, gripping her hips as she straddled him. "Believe me, I've learned that lesson. I quite like being the husband you want me to be."

"Well, that man is not a man who needs the Intersect." She leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. "I love _you_, Chuck Bartowski, not it, and I always have." She sat back. "And I also love a husband who isn't too stiff to move–"

"Too late." He reached up his hands again. "Where did you get this lavender lingerie from? Please tell me it's not from mission prep."

She swatted him on the shoulder. As if she'd let anything from a mission into their lives, or their room. "Care package from Carina, along with a bottle of scented massage oil that should be just warm enough. Be right back." She pulled out of his hands as she swung off the 'bed' and left the room.

Her departure was better than any cold shower, not that he wanted a cold shower right now. He didn't even want the massage, although a massage from a lingerie-clad Sarah was not a thing to be turned down. Right now he wanted Sarah herself, massage oil optional.

Something made a sound by the door.

Chuck rolled over.

A shadow fell over him, a whisper of silk like a promise.

Chuck smiled, opening his eyes.

A ninja stood above him, with two short swords ready to strike.

"Sarah!" he shrieked.

The swords plunged down, crossed above his neck. One more move and he would be average height for a man. A dead man.

Chuck reached up and grabbed the attacker's wrists (like iron!), pushing himself away and off the chopping block. Then he pulled, his legs snapped up as he folded double, flinging himself off the bed lengthwise. He missed with his feet, but his knees caught the ninja on the shoulders and knocked him backwards, pulling Chuck off the bed onto his back on the floor, blankets cushioning the impact.

The ninja pulled off his mask. "Did you flash?" asked Agent Rye.

Sarah ran in, gun raised. She stopped when she saw who it was. "What are you doing here?"

"Did you _flash_?" said Rye again. "Him, not you."

Sarah belted her robe.

"No," said Chuck.

Rye turned to Sarah. "Are you sure he isn't an agent?"

She pointed at her fallen, panting, lump of husband, all twisted in the blankets on the floor. "Does he _look_ like an agent?" She moved between the man with the swords and the man with her heart. "Haven't you abused him enough?"

Rye stretched a bit in his costume, joints cracking. "Well, I admit the pain therapy didn't work out quite the way I'd hoped, his fault, not mine. That's why I think the key may be fear. Pure, adrenalized fear, rocketing through his plasma! But not here, he's obviously too comfortable here." He looked her up and down.

"You want fear?" Two knives appeared in her hands, and for the rest of his life (starting the next day) Chuck would always wonder where they came from. "My blades versus yours."

Chuck's eyes bulged.

"Exactly," said Rye, backing away. "Just like that."

"Get out, Rye. You really need to get some sleep."

He paused at the door. "I don't do sleep, Agent Charles. I do meditative trancing."

Thunk-thunk. "Somewhere. Else."

"Gotcha. Later. Tomorrow." He fled at last.

She got her knives and secured the door, undoing her robe as she turned, with more eye bulging on Chuck's part. "Oh, poor baby." The robe fell to the floor. "Someone needs comforting."

* * *

Sarah had had quite enough of Agent Rye. "You want to take Chuck out on a mission, without the Intersect? Are you insane?"

General Beckman glared at her from the big screen. Sarah had forgotten just how much more imposing that made her, the appearance of size coupled with her indomitable will. "You should know, Agent Charles, that in addition to being a Psy-ops instructor and a neurological Ph.D., Agent Rye is also a fully-trained field operative."

Rye smirked, waiting for the green light. His operations were always green-lit.

Beckman continued. "You should also know that I agree completely with you." She shifted her focus. "Chuck is not a spy, Mr. Rye, but his wife is, and I would be very careful about what I suggest for her husband in front of her, if I were you. Castle has already taken enough damage."

Sarah had no time to celebrate. Beckman got a thoughtful look, and Sarah was unhappily reminded of Ellie's dislike of thoughtful Generals.

"A mission doesn't sound like a bad idea, though, and an ideal candidate has just crossed my desk." A picture of a man's face appeared on the screen. "Agent Rosenbaum was found murdered at a winery in Northern California, a place where your faces are thankfully not well-known. He was carrying a data nano-chip, which was not recovered with his body."

"You want us to recover the chip, General?"

"Naturally," said the General.

"That doesn't sound very dangerous," grumbled Rye.

"It could be," said Beckman. She pressed a button, and another man's face appeared. "Pierre Melville, a French radical turned terrorist, will be at the winery tomorrow, supposedly for a Wine-Off, a competition between French vintages and their California counterparts. We believe he's coming for the chip, and will do anything to get it."

Rye seemed a little happier. "Well, at there's some possibility of life-threatening mayhem."

Casey grunted in agreement.

"And you all get to enjoy some time out of Castle, I'm sure you must feeling a touch of cabin fever by now."

Chuck raised his hand. "Uh, General?"

"Mr. Charles," she inquired. "You have something to offer?"

"Only to point out that this mission might be better handled if Casey took point. He's done all those bartending gigs over the years, I think it's only fair to let him put all that knowledge to better use."

The General nodded. "An excellent suggestion. Colonel, this is your mission. Good luck, team."

* * *

Somewhere up north…

"She'll kill you."

"She will never know," said the other man. "And if she did, what of it? She is nothing but Volkoff's lapdance anyway."

"Lapdog."

"Yes, lapdog, excuse me. Agent Charles will come for the chip, and we are here for Agent Charles, only we will not kill him. She will go running back to the master for instructions, and by that time we will have sold this chip and its bearer to our client, for money that will make even Volkoff's eyes widen."

"Will it be enough for us to hide forever? Remember what happened to Packard, and Boris."

"No one knows what happened to Boris. But he was a fool, and so was Packard, setting themselves against Volkoff," said the first man. "We will take our triumph to him ourselves, and soon Frost will be _our_ lapdance!"

"I like this plan," said his partner, nodding. "Taking orders from a woman, it's unnatural."

"So, we are agreed," said Pierre, raising a glass of stolen wine. "To Agent Charles, and the money he will bring us."

Victor toasted. "And his team?" Not really a question.

"We only want their leader," said Pierre. "Kill the rest. Kill them all."

* * *

**A/N2 **See? there was some fluff. I hope you didn't blink, you might have missed it.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** A bit of a delay finishing this off. I had a conference call I needed to participate in.

Did anyone think that Pierre Melville drawing the tip of the needle over his tongue was more than a little reminiscent of Dracula, doing the same thing with Harker's razor?

* * *

"_Miss this!"_

"_Are you sure you're not an agent?"_

"_Someone needs comforting."_

"_We only want their leader. Kill the rest."_

* * *

One week ago…

Vivian Volkoff lay in bed, afraid to sleep. She wanted to sleep, she craved sleep, but her dreams were neither pleasant nor restful. They could have been, every one of them had Mr. Charles in a starring role, which she found very pleasant, but not in a restful sort of way. He'd saved her life the week before in any number of unrestful ways, to be sure. Gun battles, car chases, even horseback riding. Always with style, always with flair, always the perfect gentleman.

And then…

Then, the peril escaped, the foe vanquished, just as she was ready to take that step and find out what lay beyond the closing credits of their little movie, that Agent, Sarah Walker, would suddenly come out of nowhere and take her hero away from her. Always another mission.

It wasn't fair.

He'd said she was well on her way. She didn't feel well on her way to anywhere, certainly not to where she wanted to go, since that was always where he was and he would always be going somewhere else. Always another mission. As bad as the boys at University. Worse, really, since he was no boy, and she _wanted_ to be with _him_.

Her unfamiliar longing curdled into a more familiar anger. Vivian threw her pillow across the room.

_I've had quite enough of this, thank you very much. _ She was a Mac–no, she was a Volkoff.

What would her father, oil company executive or international master criminal, think of his daughter, mooning over a man she'd known for less than a day, even a day as intense as that one had been. The parent she'd met those few times didn't look like the sort to moon over anything.

The pillow fell to the floor, pulling some papers down with it, covered with shapes and lines, the long and complex tracing of the true ownership of her–this house. Was anything really, truly hers?

The last paper fell, the one that started it all, that ended it all. It had one word (in Mr. Charles' bold yet flowing hand), in a big box with lots of arrows pointing to it. Her father's name. Her father. Her name.

She lay back in her bed, one pillow short. _Hers_. Mr. Charles had been right, of course he had, she just needed time to see it. She had her father, she had her name. She had her firm place to stand upon, and tomorrow she would start moving the world.

She was a Volkoff.

* * *

Today, at an unnamed winery in Northern California…

The tall man strode into the courtyard as if he owned the place, waiters and guests alike making way for him without a second's hesitation. He kept going. Eventually someone would stand his ground, and that was the man he wanted to see.

The French flag dominated one side of the courtyard, French wines in French bottles on proud French display. They were good at display. Casey had his usual reaction to other people's flags in _his_ country.

"You have some distaste for the _Tricolor_, monsieur?"

"Oh, nothing that a couple of different colors couldn't cure," said Casey, not bothering to look at the questioner. "Was I that obvious?"

"Oui, monsieur," said the man, coming to stand beside Casey as they gazed on the flag. "I have seen that same look of disdain many times on the faces of my compatriots, as they are forced to listen to your American tourists mangle our mother tongue, asking for _le salle de bain_ when they really want _un toilette_."

Casey shrugged. "That's what they deserve for trying to speak a language that isn't English."

The other man sighed. "I am afraid I am forced to be amused by you, _meestair_…?"

Casey smiled at the deliberate mispronunciation. "Carson," he said. "_Meestair_ John Carson, Wine & Cigars magazine." He handed the man a beautifully fake business card.

"Pierre Melville." Pierre tucked the card into his pocket rather than try to shake hands.

"Why forced?" asked Casey.

"Because the proper alternative," Pierre pointed a finger at Casey like a dueling pistol at dawn, "Is illegal in both our countries."

Casey grunted thoughtfully. "Could always find a third country."

"Heeeere's Johnny," said a loud voice in a strong Southern accent. "Y'all can't get away from me that easy, John-John," continued Chuck effusively. "Who's yer friend?"

"Not sure friend is the right word, Mr. Charles." He did his duty, as always. "Pierre Melville, Mr. Charles, the publisher of Wine & Cigars."

Melville smirked. "So you are the hired help, Mr. Carson?"

"Expert opinion, more like," said Chuck, slapping Casey on the back. "Our Johnny here can tell a Bordeaux from a burgundy at fifty paces!"

"As could any French school-child," said Melville. "Are you going to introduce me to your…companion?"

"Hell, she ain't no companion," said Chuck with a laugh. "This here's my wife! Sarah? Sarah baby?" he turned and pulled her back around as she guzzled. "You want to go easy on that stuff," Chuck whispered loudly into her ear. "It ain't Two-Buck Chuck, y'know."

"But Charlie baby, it's just _every_where!"

"Save some for the rest of the guests. Say hello to Mr. Melville, from France."

Sarah wiped excess wine from her lips with the back of her hand and smiled vacantly. "Howdy."

Melville bowed, not wanting to get any closer. He turned to Casey and favored him with a smile. "You are in good company, monsieur."

"Why, thank you kindly," said Sarah.

"I must go," said Melville, backing away. "The judging will commence shortly. Adieu."

"Gesundheit," said Chuck to the man's back. The accent faded with the grin. "That didn't take long."

"Told you so," said Casey. Rabid French nationalists were just too, too easy. "Pay up."

"Later," said Rye from the van. "Casey, you mingle and try to sniff out the chip. Chuck and Sarah, go inside and do the same thing. Make sure you split up, and Chuck? If you can manage to stumble across some of Melville's thugs, so much the better."

"Come on baby," said Mr. Charles, on stage again. "Let's let our hired help do his hired helping. What say you and me go check out the digs?"

* * *

Three eyes gazed down at them from above with high-power scopes. A patch covered the place where the fourth eye should have been, and gazed at nothing. "Inform Frost that our target has arrived." Neither man needed artificial enhancements to hear the Southern buffoon's shouted destination. "If you still need to."

* * *

Once inside, they split up as directed, Chuck heading for the stairs to the cellars, while Sarah took the upper floors. The ground floor rooms were beautiful but sterile, as one would expect for rooms that got rented out for a variety of business functions. She walked through them at a steady pace, her sensor idle in her hand, towards the back stairs, and the servants' quarters. That's where the action would be.

* * *

The assassins split up, one going to the back stairs, the other to the front, while the third kept his eye on the target. Agent Charles' team would never know what hit them.

Victor stopped on the upper floor landing. The ground floor would not hold any agent's interest long, so they were either already up here or soon would be. He listened at the door, hearing a slight rustle through the solid wood. He opened the door slowly on well-oiled hinges, just a crack, and spotted her, the blonde, moving from one office to another, quickly. He timed her searches, preparing to move into position. She went into an office and he moved, to wait in the office she would enter next, and last.

He heard the door across the hall open and readied his knife for a quick thrust and twist.

* * *

Down in the cellars, Chuck found a hall, and lots of doors. He opened up the first one on the right. Racks and racks of bottled wine, a few casks and barrels. Even with a sensor this could take forever.

Okay, assuming the courier came down here at all, with murderers after him he would have come down these stairs pretty much at a dead run. This room was on the wrong side, he'd have to turn around to get here, and he wouldn't waste the time or the speed. Chuck closed the door and crossed the hall, opening the door on another room, much the same as the first. He put his faith in science and closed the door behind him as he started his search.

* * *

Hercule had no door to hide behind, but there was no one in the hall to see him. His quarry must have already chosen a room to search. Hercule knew which room to look in, and went directly to that door, listening. Bottles clinked softly within, and he reached for his blade.

* * *

Casey used his cover to 'interview' a number of persons, and generally roam the grounds at will. About the only places he couldn't get close to were the displays themselves, roped off for the judging that was about to begin. People were beginning to gather, but so far his tracker hadn't buzzed once. Luckily he had other ways to know something was up.

Who was Melville talking to? And where was he going in such a hurry?

* * *

Down in the cellar, Hercule heard footsteps. Not from the room, from the stairs! _Merde_. He stepped across the hall and into another storeroom, waiting his chance.

* * *

Casey moved away from the crowd as they moved away from him. He raised his watch. "Melville's on the move. Side door, looks like he's headed for the cellars. Who's got eyes there?"

"Chuck?" Sarah's voice.

A tapping sound came over their earpieces. Chuck didn't dare make a louder sound. Rye had gotten his wish.

* * *

Victor heard her stop in the hall, saying "Chuck?" He heard her running off, back to the stairs. He risked a peek, and sure enough, she was gone. _Merde._ He went after her.

* * *

"The chip is in a bottle of '86 Chateau le Franc."

A whisper of sound, the sound of a whisper. Information that the rest of the team had to have, even if passing it to them meant his own capture and possible death. John Casey grimaced. The sort of thing _he_ would do. It wasn't Chuck's job to face capture and death, it was his. Or Sarah's. Or Rye's, and since it was Rye's hare-brained scheme that got Chuck into this mess, he had a double-helping of hurt coming. He'd send the fat bastard in for back-up, but Sarah had to be halfway there already, and she'd probably kill Rye herself.

"Movement."

Movement? Of what? Better not be Chuck, the last thing he should do is move. He should let the bad guys do that, make as much noise as they could to cover his reports.

"Casey, keep an eye out," said Sarah, sounding breathless as she ran down stairs. "There are some waiters coming your way, one of them must have the bottle."

Oh. The _bottle's_ movement. Great. Now he had to go hobnob with a bunch of snooty aristos while his partners got all the gunplay! Life just wasn't fair sometimes. He headed for the stands, and the formation of waiters emerging from the 'chateau'.

They lined up along the ropes, each with a different bottle. Casey pushed his way to the front and moved along the line, hand in pocket, holding the sensor tightly. Not in the first bottle, or the second. The third put out a signal, and he paused, wondering how he was going to get his hands on it, in the middle of this crowd. He moved all the way to the end, and came back. The buzzing sensor definitely indicated that bottle.

"You like that one, monsieur?" said Melville, standing behind the ropes, just a little breathless.

"It's a very good year," said Casey.

Melville pulled the waiter back a step, and moved into his space. "Then that one shall be our prize."

Casey straightened. "Prize? This isn't some county fair."

"No, monsieur, it is a field of honor, and I am challenging you to a duel, in front of all these assembled witnesses." Pierre lightly slapped Casey across the cheeks with his bare hand, since he didn't have the traditional white glove. "Unless, of course, you have no taste for single combat."

Casey smiled. "Oh, I've got more than a taste, Pierre. I accept your challenge, and I'll even offer a prize of my own." An attendant parted the line for Casey to pass through. He pulled the cigar that had been in his pocket all morning and laid it on the tray, label up. "This is a Costa Gravan Royale."

"The cigar of kings!"

"You've heard of them, that's good," said Casey. "I doubt you've ever smoked one before, though." _ Unlike me_ was heavily implied.

Pierre bowed. "You have doubled the pleasure of my inevitable victory, monsieur."

"Then I hope you like being thought of while I smoke that cigar and drink that wine, Pierre."

"I think not, _meestair_ Carson. No taster in France has defeated me in over five years, I am not about to lose my reputation to some American _poseur_."

"Taster?"

"Of course. While we are in the wild American west, I at least am not some uncultured savage. This duel will be fought with wine."

* * *

Victor reached the hallway, but the woman was gone. A broken-off heel lay in the hall, outside the door of the room where they had left the dead agent. He heard her voice, followed by the sounds of a scuffle. Gunshots! He looked down at the knife in his hand and backed away, to the room across the hall, until a better opportunity presented itself. A hand grabbed him and threw him up against the stone wall. Hercule had the knife point under his comrade's jaw before he recognized him, and together they lay in wait.

* * *

_How do I get myself into these things?_ His partners were in danger down in the cellars and he was playing Wyatt Earp. It didn't help that the MC seemed hell-bent on repeating everything he must have picked up from a quick google search on dueling, playing it up for the crowd. If he'd just let them drink, this whole ridiculous farce would be over already.

Finally the MC shut up, coming back to stand by the long-suffering waiter, forced to play podium holding the tray. Normally this was the part where he would ask them if there was no other way to satisfy their respective honors, but since this was wine, what was the point? "Gentlemen, are you ready?"

They nodded.

"Would our esteemed judges please present their choice?"

The esteemed judges were more than happy to do so, this was the most fun they'd had this year. They blocked the view of the table with their bodies as they selected a particular bottle and poured two equal glasses. Then they turned back, and another of the ubiquitous waiters took the small tray from them and brought it up to the MC, who removed the small card specifying the details of the vintage. The waiter stepped back and turned, offering the one glass to the challenger, and the other to the challenged.

Before they took their drinks, the MC added a final wrinkle. "If you gentlemen would be so kind, please write your decisions on these cards."

Casey took the small card with a slight grimace at the theatricality of it all._ If he plays the _Final Jeopardy_ theme song I may get to kill someone after all._ Pierre played it up, holding the glass to the light to examine the color, holding it up to his nose to take an exaggerated sniff of the bouquet.

Casey gritted his teeth. His friends were being shot at, dammit. "You about done there, Pierre?"

Melville gave Casey the Evil Eye, but then smiled. "I forget, you must soon leave here, to scurry off to your tiny cubicle, where you must write every detail of your humiliating defeat for your Wine and Cheese magazine."

"That's 'cigar'."

"I have met your publisher. 'Cheese' is more appropriate."

Casey chuckled. "You ain't lying. Cheers."

They drank, not more than a single mouthful. Attention turned inward, as each man focused on the taste of the dark liquid.

"Merveilleux," said Pierre.

"You got that right," said Casey, and both men wrote on their cards. The waiter brought them to the MC, who made a show of not looking at them just yet. He had to get out his glasses first, of course.

"Ahem, well, Monsieur Melville believes the vintage to be an '84 Black Stump Bordeaux, and in this he is completely correct. Well done, monsieur." The gathered audience clapped politely, as the MC checked the second card. "Mr. Carson has also written '84 Black Stump Bordeaux, very good, Mr. Carson, uh, to which he has added, early pressing. Judges?"

The three judges turned back to the table and picked up their chosen bottle, inspecting the label for the history, if any, and pouring samples for themselves. One quick taste-and-spit later–"Congratulations, Mr. Carson. Well done!"

Congratulations really to that French booze-snob, danger-close to being a caricature of his beloved culture, who made Casey sit through hours of tedious and ever-more-inebriated lecture as the demonstrations progressed. While Casey would have preferred that the stake-out had netted them anything at all, the otherwise-wasted night had at least earned him a solid grounding in the basics, and all those bartending gigs since then hadn't hurt.

Casey tuned out then MC's boring history of the Black Stump winery, and its apparently not-so-famous Split Harvest, delivered for the benefit of the audience. He reclaimed his cigar, and claimed the prize bottle, saluting his challenger with it. "Better luck next time." Melville stalked away, stiff with rage, but it would have been out of character for Casey to go after him. He strolled off into the crowd, accepting congratulations on all sides. Maybe he should start a real Wine & Cigars magazine.

As he reached the edge of the crowd, a large man, clearly having enjoyed a few too many free samples, lurched into Casey, almost causing him to drop his precious bottle. Combat reflexes saved the day, and Casey made it to the edge of the crowd and down the side stairswith no further mishaps. Now to see about his team.

"Stop!" said a thickly-accented voice. "Give me that bottle."

Casey turned. Melville had him flanked. "Sore loser, Pierre?"

"Do not fear, monsieur Carson," said Melville, taking the bottle. "I will return the contents of this to you, in due course." He gestured to his men. "I will pour them over your grave, but rest assured, I will drink them first."

Casey snorted. "Nice."

"C'est la vie. Adieu, monsieur."

His men raised their weapons but shots rang out before they fired any. "Casey," shouted Chuck, "We're coming!"

Melville backed off, his men giving him cover. "Another time," he said, brandishing the bottle. "But I will think of you!"

By the time Chuck and Sarah reached Casey, Melvile and his men were but the echoes of running feet. "Casey, what the hell?" Chuck panted. "You let them get away."

"With the chip!" added Sarah.

"Relax," said Casey, pulling out his Costa Gravan Royale. Time to reward himself for a job well done. "Rye and I switched bottles upstairs." The big blowhard knew _that_ much tradecraft, at least.

Chuck recognized that gleeful smile. "So what's Melville got?"

"A bottle of Old Smokey '68," said Casey, puffing his cigar to life. "A good year for that label, but it's only good for hand-to-hand combat. I can't be there when he takes his first swig, but I can promise you he'll be thinking of me tonight." He looked down. "What happened to your shoes?"

* * *

"Where is the body?" asked Frost. "Alexei instructed me to personally verify your kill, and you know how literal he can be."

Hercule spoke for them all. "There were…complications, Madame Frost."

Frost heard failure in his words. "Did you deal with these 'complications', at least?"

Hercule brought out his knife, pretended to examine its edge. "Monsieur Melville is not a happy man tonight."

"Melville lives?"

"Oui, madame."

Frost raised up her arm, revealing the gun she had trained on her subordinate. "You know how Alexei feels about failure, Hercule."

His knife was in the wrong position. He'd never be able to throw it before she could pull the trigger. Not that it mattered. If he killed Frost they were all dead men anyway. "Oui, madame."

Frost smiled. "Good boy." She held her gun more casually. "Fortunately this is not failure, not yet."

He held his knife less casually. "How so?"

"Pierre Melville is not the sort of man to take this sort of humiliation lying down," said Frost. "And the CIA is not the sort of agency to let an opportunity of this kind slip through their fingers." She holstered her gun. "Return to the winery. Agent Charles is famous for going back over his own tracks, and I'm betting he'll go over these."

Hercule raised his knife in salute. "I promise you, Madame Frost. Agent Charles dies tonight."

* * *

**A/N2 **Thank God for Monty Python! I couldn't think up any good fake names for fake wines.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N **I've been pretty sick the last few days, wrote most of this just yesterday. I hope it sounds as coherent to you as it does to me.

* * *

"_Could always find a third country."_

"_I accept your challenge."_

"_Better luck next time." _

"_Agent Charles is famous for going back over his own tracks."_

* * *

Six days ago…

"Good afternoon, Miss Volkoff. My name is Riley, I'm your father's attorney. What can I do for you?"

For a second she hesitated, feeling like a child on the edge of a cliff. She hardly knew what she wanted, much less what to ask for, especially from a total stranger.

"Miss Volkoff?"

"Yes, Mr. Riley," she said quickly. "I…have request that may sound a little odd."

Riley chuckled in a friendly manner. "I've been your father's attorney for more than two decades, miss. I doubt there's any request you could make that he hasn't done one better."

She took courage from his tone. "Well, about ten days ago, there was an…altercation here at the manor."

"More than that, according to the reports that crossed my desk."

Of course he would know, he was responsible for the house, that's how she'd found him. Chuck's map was admirably thorough. "Yes, exactly. I'm afraid I was in a bit of shock at the time, and I fear I was less effusive in my praise than I should have been." Surely he could hear her face turning red over the phone. "I was hoping it would be possible to contact the leader of the team that assisted me, so that I may…express my gratitude… more fully?" God, she was trembling!

Riley didn't seem to hear it. "What is this team leader's name?"

"It was an American team, led by a Mr. Charles."

He hummed into the phone. "The name doesn't sound familiar," he said, as if he kept track of foreign agency personnel as a matter of course. Perhaps he did. "Do you have any other names I can use?"

Ergh. "There was a Miss Sarah Walker involved," she muttered.

"Ah," said Riley. "Now that's a name I know very well. You just leave everything to me, Miss Volkoff, and I'll get your message through to Mr. Charles myself."

* * *

Today…

"Excellent work, team," said General Beckman. "The chip is recovered, the details of our Black Op sites in Europe are secure, but the mission isn't over. You have provided us with an opportunity."

_Uh-oh, General-being-clever alert!_ "What opportunity would that be, General?" asked Chuck, pulling at his tie.

"Pierre Melville has not yet left California, he appears to be suffering from some kind of food poisoning."

"Wine poisoning, more like," said Casey, smugly.

"Be that as it may, Colonel," said Beckman, "The point is, he is still in the area, and he still wants the chip. Fortunately for him, one of our own has turned traitor, and has contacted Mr. Melville through back channels to make a deal."

"We have to go back?" said Casey.

"Not you, Colonel. Judging from your report, I think it safe to say that Melville wouldn't buy water from _you_ if his head was on fire. While not a member of the team, Mr. Rye has agreed to be our traitor. Not only was he in a position to make a second switch, Mr. Melville hasn't seen his face."

Chuck raised his hand. "I…would hope that, instead of the chip, Agent Rye will be selling him a different chip, or maybe even a long-range homing beacon, so we can track him to whatever hole he's hiding in and root out his entire network."

Beckman gave Chuck an approving smile. "Spot on, Mr. Charles. You took the words right out of my mouth. Manoosh should be finished making the false chip soon. Agent Rye, you will leave immediately after that. Agent Charles will be your backup. Good luck, team." The screen went black.

Rye turned to give Chuck a devil-may-care grin. "You ready to rumble, Chuck?"

"Chuck's not an agent, Mr. Rye," said Sarah. "I'm your backup tonight."

* * *

Later, in DC...

Beckman's phone buzzed. "Yes, Mr. Clark?"

"Doctor on line one, ma'am."

"Thank you," she said and hung up, leaving Mr. Clark confused. The General never said thank you.

"Ellie," said Beckman, before realizing that her mouth was faster than her hand. She pressed the button. "Ellie."

The face that popped up on the monitor looked awful, in spite of everyone's attempts to make Ellie take a few more naps, but her smile was genuine. "Good news, General."

The last time Ellie had called with good news, the news had been very good. "You have an antitoxin?"

"Correct. How soon can they get back here?"

Beckman checked the time, even though she knew it was too late to stop the ball she'd already set in motion. "Certainly not today, they're backstopping another agent on an assignment."

"They're what? General, they aren't supposed to be leaving Castle for any reason. Send Carina if it's that important."

"Agent Miller is currently tied up on another assignment…"

* * *

At that moment, somewhere in LA…

Carina dangled from the ceiling, clutching on to the rope to keep the cuffs from digging into her wrists. Her captors had been steadily removing books from under her feet in an attempt (a pathetic attempt, but an attempt) to get her to talk, and they were down to the last one, a thick copy of War and Peace. "I'll tell you what," she said. "You let me go now and I'll let you live."

* * *

Back in DC…

"…but Agent Rye is more than capable of handling this drop. I only sent Agent Bartowski as support because the rules require it, and she was the…least unqualified."

She tried to be amused, but she was too tired. "What did Casey do this time?" said Ellie through a yawn.

Beckman wasn't above a little blackmail. "I'll send you the report when you've had a decent night's sleep."

"Fine, I'll sleep on the flight."

"What flight?"

"The flight to LA." Ellie held up a little vial of a precious liquid. "If they can't come to me then I have to go to them."

* * *

Later that same day, California time…

"Hey, Chuck. Can I talk to you for a minute? I'm on my way out, and once the mission's over I probably won't be coming back, so this will likely be our last chance to talk together."

Chuck stood, noticing Casey rolling his eyes as he did. "Sure, Agent Rye."

"Come on, walk with me. And please, call me Jim. I think we can safely say that my part in your evaluation is over."

"We can?"

"Absolutely. You aren't motivated by pride, or deterred by pain, and really, your hands should be pretty sore from whacking them against my body–"

Chuck flexed his hands. "Pretty sore, yeah."

"That reminds me, let me get some Advil for the road." They stopped outside the first aid station and Rye ducked inside to grab a small bottle. "As for fear, well, my two ninja swords and Melville's large burly thugs should have gotten enough high-octane fear in you to lift _three_ Intersect rocks."

Chuck struggled to find something clever to say, all the way up the stairs and ladders to ground level. "Um…yeah."

"So that's why I'm thinking it's not fear at all, although for the life of me I can't figure out what else it might be. You don't get angry, do you?"

Chuck gestured around them, taking in the whole ruined loading dock. "I worked in this Buy More for five years."

"I guess not." They stopped at Rye's car. "Well, so long, Chuck. Off I go to the land of wine and…hmm. Wine and romance. What do you think about romance, Chuck?"

Romance as a trigger? "Are we talking about the Intersect, or something else entirely?"

"No, not me, you goof," said Rye, waving his hands. "Although I _am_ flattered. The thing is, I sent Agent Charles to scout the drop site a while ago." He gave Chuck a little man-to-man smirk. "Seems kind of a shame to let a balcony overlooking a vineyard under a full moon go to waste now."

For a moment Chuck's gaze went all soft and unfocused, visions of _The Princess Bride_ playing in his head. "Yeah."

Rye opened the door and grabbed Chuck's arm, shoving him inside while his wits were on perfect kisses. "Well, what are we waiting for? I'm already behind schedule."

The slamming of the door brought Chuck back to his senses. "But…" He turned to point at the loading dock as Rye leapt into his car and floored it out of the No Parking zone. "Hey…" He fumbled his seat belt on as Rye raced to keep his appointment. His hand brushed against something hard in his pocket, and he pulled out his phone. "Casey…"

"Call him from the road, Chuck, we're on CIA time now."

Chuck started tapping. "Is that different from Pacific Standard…that's strange. I can't get through."

"Is your phone upgraded to the new security protocols that came through this morning?"

_What new security protocols?_ "No."

"Well, too late now, I guess. Get that taken care of when you get back."

"Can I use your phone?"

"Chuck, I'm driving here," said Rye. "I haven't got attention to spare to enter my password. Or don't you obey the laws of this great nation?"

Chuck watched the traffic lights whizzing by, especially the red ones… "I do."

"Don't worry, Chuck, we'll get there in a couple of hours, you can call in then. This car has every anti-detection device known to man, it's practically invisible, so I can really open her up," said Rye. "You'd have to have a very determined driver and a very fast car to keep with _this_ baby."

* * *

Back in Castle...

Sarah opened the door onto the Twilight Zone. Casey sat at the table, a cigar on one side, a glass of wine on the other, his feet up as he read the latest issue of Guns & Ammo magazine. She'd never seen him so…relaxed. "Where's Chuck?"

"Rye came by," said Casey, turning a page. "Said he wanted to chat, probably just wanted Chuck to keep the door from hitting him on the way out."

Sarah pulled up the monitors by reflex. By instinct. Rye's car was gone, but where was Chuck? She backtracked the recording. "The Hell!"

Casey swung into action immediately. "What's up, Bartowski?"

"Rye kidnapped Chuck!" She ran it back again. "Where's the audio?"

Casey checked the console, but it all looked normal. "It's the loading dock, audio was always buggy. Look, he shoves Chuck in but our boy isn't trying to get away."

"Rye must have said something." She pulled out her gun and checked the load.

Casey took over the rewind. "He's not showing his face to the cameras. Moving fast, like he knows he only has seconds." Casey grunted, and pressed a button.

"What?"said Sarah, as she put on her armor.

"The car must have sonic baffles. Watch him pull out. That much delta-V should have made a noise even the audio would pick up. Explains why I didn't hear anything suspicious at the time."

The screen lit up, but no one was looking at Beckman's face when it appeared. She caught on to the kicked-anthill atmosphere immediately. "What's going on, Colonel?"

Casey seconded the main screen to something local so he wouldn't have to turn around. "Agent Rye loaded Chuck into his car and took off at high speed. Chuck did not appear to be resisting." He put the playback on her monitor.

Beckman waited until she'd seen what there was to see. "He kidnapped the Intersect?"

Another window opened. Ellie, looking like some flight attendant had just woken her up.

"He's not!" shouted Sarah. "He's just Chuck!"

Ellie's face lost its bleary-eyed expression. "Why are you carrying a rocket launcher?"

"Agent Rye just absconded with your brother," said Beckman.

"Agent Bartowski's going to get him back," said Casey.

"This is for the second person who gets in my way," said Sarah. The CIA Nerd Herder already had one missile built in.

"You need speed, not firepower," said Casey. "He's already on the Five, headed North."

"With Casey quarterbacking from Castle, you'll need backup as well. Agent Miller is in LA." Beckman pressed a button.

"_We need you to come in to Castle, Microscope."_ Mr. Clark's voice.

"_I'm working. These idiots are telling me everything."_

"Monologuing ploy gets 'em every time," muttered Casey.

"_Eagle-Eye has been kidnapped by one of ours."_

A slight pause. _"On my way."_

Beckman cut the line over sounds of destruction as Carina rearranged her schedule. "There may be a slight delay."

"Would a '68 Ford Mustang help?" asked Ellie.

"Why, you have one?"

"No, but my father does. It's in Burbank somewhere."

"There's a lot of stuff in Burbank somewhere," said Sarah, all business. "I don't know how to contact Orion. And after all I've done, trying to hunt him down for what he tried to do to Chuck, how am I supposed to get him to tell me where it is, much less let me use it?"

Every screen in Castle went black. SAY PLEASE.

* * *

Travelling upstate, on the Five…

"You know, Chuck," said Rye suddenly. "You really had me fooled."

"How?" said Chuck. While he liked Ferris Wheels (or at least, he _had_ liked Ferris Wheels, right up until that whole Jill debacle), he'd never been big on roller coasters, and Agent Rye's driving skills forcibly reminded him why. "How did I have you fooled?"

"About you being an agent."

"I'm _not_ an agent."

"But are you sure about that? Because I've been watching you in action these last couple of days and I have to tell you, no one looks more like an agent than you do."

Chuck looked at his hands, clutching whatever part of the car was solidest. "Right now?"

"What, you're scared?"

"Uh-huh."

"Spies get scared, Chuck."

"Sarah doesn't get scared."

"Agent Charles lives every moment of every day in stark terror of what might happen to you, Chuck, and like all spies, she's been trained to channel that fear, use it, to make sure that nothing ever will. She doesn't want you to have that training, to be the agent she knows you could be. It's why cops don't marry cops."

Chuck already knew what kind of agent he could be. "Been there, done that, burned the T-shirt."

"You don't really think it's that easy, do you?" asked Rye. "Nobody ever loses anything, Chuck, you least of all. They just forget it, but it's all there. Somewhere in your psyche are the rags and ashes of that T-shirt, waiting for you to put them on again."

_Carlos Carmichael esta muerte._ "Never again."

"You may not have a choice. You may not even know that you're doing it," said Rye. "But what you _do_ have, Chuck, is the power, right now, to make yourself into the kind of man who wears his T-shirt, instead of a man whose T-shirt wears him."

"What does that even mean?"

"Don't ask me, it's your metaphor. Now here's the deal, Chuck. Somewhere up ahead of us is your wife, and a bunch of bad guys. When we get there, do you want her to see you die, or do you want her to see you save the day?"

"Those are my choices? What happened to romance?"

"Romance comes after, Chuck. You need to focus on right now."

If only the car made some noise. The green windshield, the thermal imaging and the computer control made it feel like he was in his Intersect Fortress of Solitude, even though Rye was there so technically it wasn't solitude, and the world outside was movie playing at the wrong speed. Anything but now. "Oh, okay, uh, save the day, I guess."

Rye shook his head. "You're gonna have to do better than that, Chuck. That 'I guess' has got to go. Now, I'm going to accelerate to attack speed, and go into a light meditative trance while I drive, so I don't get there too tired to do anything." The numbers on the car's speedometer started to climb, but Chuck couldn't feel it. "I encourage you to do the same, try to polish as much of that 'I guess' off of your spirit as you can before it catches on something."

* * *

Later, at an unnamed winery…

Sarah pulled up to the gate, grateful that someone had arranged to have new tires put on the Mustang. Orion had tinkered with just about everything else. Even if she hadn't heard one county after another put out a 'do not approach order' on her on the scanner, they couldn't have caught up to her anyway.

And besides, she still had the rocket launcher.

Rye's car was exactly where she expected it to be, under cover of darkness from the blindingly bright full moon, and wouldn't _that_ make her life just that extra touch more difficult. Her phone's screen revealed nothing inside, except a plain briefcase with her name on it, and some GPS coordinates.

He wanted _her_ to make the drop?

Sarah took the case, grateful that she'd left the rocket launcher in the car. She'd need it the next time she saw Rye.

* * *

"Where's Sarah?" asked Chuck, as they walked out onto the moonlit expanse of the balcony overlooking the majestic sweep of the vineyards. "Wow, this is beautiful."

"Yeah, sometimes the scenery makes me cry," said Rye. "It's great to be a spy."

"I wish Sarah was here. You know, really here. Like you said she'd be."

"No, I didn't, Chuck. I said this is where we'd find her." He handed Chuck a set of optics, with another for himself. "Right over there." He pointed.

* * *

Seven eyes watched from the shadows as the transaction went down. "Do we kill them now?"

"Let him go," said Frost."He'll get what's coming to him. The fool didn't even check what he was buying. You can kill the woman."

* * *

"Sarah!" shouted Chuck helplessly as the three armed men surrounded his wife.

"You need to flash, Chuck," shouted Rye. "Don't flash for yourself, flash for her, she needs you!"

Chuck felt…something, the usual sensation of a flash but not the same. "I felt–I felt something, Rye, but I don't know if it was a flash. How do I know?"

"Incoming!"

* * *

Down in the woods…

Three muffled shots pierced the darkness, and the three male figures. Sarah turned as they fell around her, to see a familiar woman step from the shadows. "Hello, _dear._"

"What are you doing?" She looked at the dead men but her eyes came back to the gun in Frost's hand.

"They planned to betray me," said Frost. "Sell Chuck, rather than kill him as I ordered."

* * *

Up on the balcony…

Men swarmed upon them from out of the Chateau, striking at Chuck and Rye alike. Rye fought heroically, Chuck fought...ably, side by side, but the low railing of the balcony that was hip high on Rye was not so high for Chuck, and at a sudden shove he tumbled over the edge, catching himself on the decorative stonework. "Rye! Help me!"

* * *

Frost tensed as Sarah's eyes went wide, but her daughter-in-law made no move to attack. She spun as Frost took a step back, seeing all the struggling men on the balcony. "Chuck?"

Frost pulled a scope from her pocket, trying to keep Sarah in view as she looked through the eyepiece. "Those aren't Melville's men."

Sarah ran. Frost followed.

* * *

Rye fought alone as Chuck hung helplessly. "Flash, Chuck," he shouted between punches. "If you fall you're dead. She's dead too!"

"I can't flash! I'm not the Intersect!"

"Don't be the Intersect," said Rye, down to one man and not much of him. "Be an agent. Can you do that?"

Chuck could do…something. The world went away, not a flash but something like it.

Chuck stood in his fortress, untouched by time. This was Now. He checked his readouts. The body was tense, so he relaxed it. The fingers were slipping. He loaded rock-climbing skills into an active register. So many skills. Why so many? The Now had no answers, so Chuck looked up at his monitors, his eyes on the world. Others who needed him, whatever he was. Rye fighting. Sarah surrounded by killers.

Sarah.

The world sped up again, his fingers securing their purchase as he hung, limp. _Whatever he was. _ "I'm not sure I'm an agent, Rye," he shouted.

Rye stood over him, looking down as he dangled. "Not good enough, Chuck."

Chuck looked up. "But…I'm not sure I'm…not an agent, either."

Rye smiled. "Much better!" He clapped his hands together. "I can work with that."

A shot rang out, and Rye's chest erupted in gore.

"And so can I, agent," said the shooter, an elderly man.

"I–I've been shot?" asked Rye.

The old man gave him a gentle push, and Rye tumbled off the balcony. "How astute of you." He looked down at Chuck. "Take my hand or die, Agent Charles."

Under the circumstances, Chuck decided not to correct the man. He took the hand. The old guy was surprisingly strong, and pulled him up easily. Chuck was too weak to resist as he was cuffed. He barely noticed the injection, making his head spin. "You don't sound French."

"I am not French, Agent Charles. I am…Belgian."

* * *

When Sarah reached the balcony it was empty, except for Chuck's watch. The only man left was Rye, down below, a mess on the masonry.

Her phone rang. Chuck's caller ID, but almost certainly not Chuck. "Hello?"

"If you attempt to follow I will kill the Intersect," said the accented voice. "This is your only warning." The call ended, and most likely the phone ended too.

Sarah heard a footstep behind her. She turned, and there was Frost, sans gun. "Who was that?"

"Aldebert De Smet," said Frost. "The Belgian. My men made a mistake but I made a worse one."

"He knows Chuck is the Intersect."

Frost nodded. "He must. He'd never have revealed himself otherwise."

"I have to get back," said Sarah. "We have to get him back, we can't let De Smet get away."

"The Belgian is not in the habit of making idle threats," said Frost. "Any pursuit now will get Chuck killed. Come with me, if you want him to live."

* * *

**A/N2 **I don't know about you, but I think Sarah making a deal with Volkoff to save Chuck is a much better and more plausible scenario than Beckman's 'rogue agents' ploy. I always thought it made Volkoff look like a fool to take Sarah on the way he did in canon.


End file.
